IRBae
by synchronysymphony
Summary: Who knew there were so many obstacles to getting kinky?


Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren't dating.

Sure, they _go_ on what could be called dates, and they spend a ridiculous amount of time together, and they fuck like bunnies every time one of their roommates leaves an apartment open, but that's it. No one ever acknowledges that there's something between them, let alone _knows_ , because they're just friends.

They're not dating.

Courfeyrac wishes they were.

He's been in love with Combeferre ever since they became friends in their freshman year of undergrad. Combeferre had been a gangly nerd then, all awkwardness and polo shirts and too-big glasses, but he'd been sweet, and he and his equally awkward roommate Enjolras had quickly taken Courfeyrac into their group, making it clear exactly how much they loved him, and ever since then, they've been the bestest of friends.

Which is fine. Courfeyrac isn't complaining about that part. He just wishes he could make things official between him and Combeferre.

They're lying in bed together, cuddling after an amazing few hours of "relaxation" (Combeferre refuses to call it by its proper name, which is filthy, raucous, wall-slamming fucking), and this is a rare luxury, because they're at Courfeyrac's place, and he lives with Marius. If there's anyone with _more_ of a knack for coming home at the exact wrong moment, Courfeyrac would like to meet them. It's cozy and peaceful and heavenly, but Courfeyrac is a little restless, because lately, he's been having ideas, and when he has ideas, he can't rest until he tests them out.

"Combeferre," he says.

"Shush. I'm sleeping."

"No, you're not. Wakey-wakey. We need to talk about sex."

"We _need_ to?"

"Yeah. Right now."

Combeferre sighs, overly-dramatic, and moves to raise his head from Courfeyrac's chest (he's tall and muscular now, but he's never gotten over his college-hood habit of using people as pillows). "Okay. What?"

Courfeyrac gives him his best diplomat smile, guaranteed to work at least 60% of the time on any reasonable human being. "Combeferre," he says. "Would you like to tie me up?"

Combeferre gawps at him. If he were wearing his glasses, they probably would have slid right off his nose.

"Uh, what?"

"Or, you could be tied up, too, that's also cool. Just, you know. Kinky stuff."

"Like… sexually?"

"Yeah. Sexually."

"Hmm." Combeferre goes to push his glasses up, forgets he's not wearing any, jabs himself in the forehead, and nods with great dignity, as if he can fool Courfeyrac into thinking he's not a tremendous dork. Then, "I see. But you know, 'kinky stuff' could really be anything. I've heard of some truly strange things in my life, you know."

"I have too," Courfeyrac says. "And don't worry, I don't want to do those. Like, I'm not going to ask you to put a carton of strawberries up my butt or anything."

"That's really, um… specific?"

Courfeyrac shudders. "Yeah. Don't ask me about it, please."

"Well, okay." Combeferre sits up and reaches onto the nightstand. He comes back with a notebook and a pencil, which Courfeyrac didn't even know were there. Probably, it was Marius's doing. He puts them into Courfeyrac's hands, nodding seriously. "Okay. Make a list. Be very detailed. Don't leave a single thing out."

"Hmm, making me specify what I want to do to you? Is that your kink?" Courfeyrac smiles dreamily. "I can live with that."

"Oh, no," Combeferre says matter-of-factly. "I mean, if you want, you can do that, too, but that's not the point of this. No, see, this is quite a delicate issue, and in order for us to proceed, we need to get IRB approval."

What.

Courfeyrac waits a couple seconds to see if this is a dream induced by marathon sex. When nothing else happens, and Combeferre just continues to look at him expectantly, he shakes his head and utters a long, drawn-out groan.

"Combeferre. Did you just say you want to submit details of our sex life to an IRB board?"

"It's actually just IRB," Combeferre says helpfully. "You know, since the B stands for 'board' already."

"Not. The. Point."

"Oh. Well then, yes. Quite."

Courfeyrac takes a second to raise his eyes to heaven. "Combeferre. Why."

"Because it's such a serious and intricate issue! I mean, if you think about it, even just tying somebody up has so many liability issues, and if you want to add in things like external accoutrements–"

"Just say 'sex toys', oh my god."

"–Then you see, the challenge goes way up. We need to make sure this is all done in a proper and safe manner."

"Which we can't do just by talking about it, like normal people?"

"Oh, no. You see, we have our own internal biases. What if we decided to do something unethical, merely on the grounds that it was 'hot'?"

He makes scare-quotes around the word 'hot.' Courfeyrac wants to cry. "So you want to find a random group of people and ask them if kinky sex is unethical."

"Yes, precisely."

"And," Courfeyrac says through gritted teeth, trying to resign himself to the fact that this is real life, "Combeferre, pray tell me. Where are we going to get these people?"

Combeferre smiles calmly. "Oh, don't worry. I think that will be the easy part."

—

The next day, Courfeyrac finds himself in Enjolras's apartment, staring straight at his twelve best friends. How he'd gotten here, he has no idea, but he knows without a doubt that he'd rather be anywhere else. According to Combeferre, it would be suspicious if one of them were absent when they presented the list to the group (Courfeyrac had tried to ignore the sting– surely, Combeferre hadn't meant to imply that he was ashamed of anyone finding out about them), so here they both are, sitting in the midst of a group of rowdy twenty-somethings, holding a list that includes the word "fisting."

It's a nightmare.

Courfeyrac coughs uncomfortably– no time like the present to be awkward, after all. "So. Uh, did you guys get a chance to look at the pdf I sent you?"

"Yeah, I read it last night." Enjolras holds up a sheet of paper, alarmingly highlighted and annotated. "Also, I did some research of my own on some of the things here, and found some resources. Would anyone like to see?"

"I would," says Eponine, and Enjolras happily hands her a bundle of papers. She flips through them for a second, and nods.

"Okay. Not too shabby."

Marius raises his hand now. "Sorry, but I have some questions. Can we go over some terminology before we begin the discussion?"

Courfeyrac puts his head in his hands, but Combeferre nudges him and says smoothly, "Of course. It's important to know the basics before delving in. What would you like to know?"

"Hmm." Marius pulls out his own list, which is even more marked-up than Enjolras's, and consults it. "Okay, first. What's _pet-play_?"

Courfeyrac slides off the couch and onto the floor, ready to dissolve into the barest of chemicals. This is going to be a long, _long_ evening.

—

It takes much longer than Courfeyrac would have thought was possible, but finally, even Marius has been thoroughly educated on every item. This doesn't mean that he's happy about it, and neither is Courfeyrac, but at least they're all on the same page.

Combeferre smiles collectedly at the group (although he looks a little strained by now, too). "So. What does everyone think?"

"I still don't think _that_ has any business going up there," mumbles Montparnasse, who's apparently rather scandalized by the whole thing if his horrified mumblings are anything to go by.

Enjolras hums thoughtfully. "I don't think I'd mind it. Hey, babe. Let's try."

Grantaire chokes on his drink, going bright red all over. He looks like he's about to faint. " _What_?"

"You know, I'm interested in these 'external accoutrements'," says Feuilly solemnly. Bahorel nods.

"Yes, indeed. How external are we talking?"

"And how accoutered?" adds Feuilly.

"Mm, yes. And how would you make sure that they accoutered themselves externally?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Courfeyrac tells them stiffly, because he has to draw the line somewhere, and if they're going to be having this horrible discussion, the least they can do is take it seriously.

Jehan raises their hand. "Do you have any of these external accoutrements? Because if you do, I'd like to borrow them."

"No, and no. I'm not sharing sex toys with my friends."

"Aww, come on. It's not like I wouldn't wash them."

"How _do_ you wash them?" asks Marius, looking genuinely interested. "Would you put them in the dishwasher? Or the washing machine? Do you use bleach?"

"But that would be disgusting," Joly protests. Bossuet nods.

"Yeah. I think it would be better to have a whole 'nother washing apparatus for them. Maybe special soap, too."

"What, dildo soap? Is that a thing?"

"Well if it's not, it really should be."

"I have a brand that works pretty well," Cosette pipes up sweetly. "They have good products for latex and leather, too. Would you like me to send you a link?"

Marius gapes at her. Courfeyrac wonders if his eyebrows are about to fall off his face. It honestly wouldn't be a surprise. He makes a sort of squealing, hissing sound like a frightened cockroach, and flops his hand at the others.

"I'd like the link," says Musichetta, ignoring him. Cosette smiles kindly.

"Of course! I'll send it to the group chat."

Normally, Courfeyrac would be interested in this information, but right now he has other things to attend to, such as finishing this horrible discussion as quickly as possible, and then forgetting that it ever happened. He clears his throat.

"Guys, can we get back to the topic at hand?"

Gradually, everyone's attention shifts back to where it should (or shouldn't) be. They peruse their lists for a bit, obviously unsure where to start, until Enjolras, in typical fashion, takes the lead.

"So, you have suspension bondage listed here," he says. "But you didn't mention anything beyond the specified suspension. Would you be engaging in other activities during that period as well? Such as, perhaps, employing some of the external accoutrements from List C?"

"Why do you talk like that?" Eponine wants to know, while everyone else searches through the paper to locate List C. Enjolras looks puzzled.

"How else am I supposed to talk?"

"Hmm, yes." Combeferre glances at Courfeyrac and wiggles his eyebrows, probably thinking he's being subtle. "What is everyone's opinion on that?"

"I think it's weird," says Montparnasse bluntly. "Why would you want to be suspended? It doesn't sound fun."

"Yeah, and what's the other person supposed to do?" adds Grantaire. "Like, just sit there going, _ooh baby, look at you dangling off the ceiling, yeah that really gets me going_?"

Enjolras paws at him and whispers something in his ear that makes him turn bright red and shut his mouth without another word. Montparnasse, sitting beside them, looks scandalized.

"That's just not right!"

"Are you kink-shaming?" asks Feuilly solemnly. "Montparnasse, how could you?"

Bahorel tuts. "Not cool. Not punk rock."

"What the– not punk– I'll kink your shame," sputters Montparnasse, making very little sense. Bahorel and Feuilly sigh and shake their heads in unison.

"Not cool."

"I have an issue with this 'water sports' thing," says Joly. Combeferre makes a face.

"I thought we took that one off."

"I'll take it off," says Feuilly. "As long as it takes me off."

"Okay, now you're not even making sense," Courfeyrac tells him sternly. He just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Joly raises his hand again.

"I really don't think it's a good one, guys. Not to kinkshame, but it's kind of… gross?"

"Gross is sexy," says Marius. Joly looks at him incredulously.

"Are you for real?"

Courfeyrac is pretty sure he's not for real, but he makes the executive decision to draw a line through 'water-sports' anyway. Joly nods at him in blatant relief.

"Thank you. That just make my day 10% better."

Enjolras coughs and shifts in his chair. "Speaking of iffy things, what about this one? _Blood-play_." He holds up his copy of the paper, on which he's circled the offending word several times and written multiple question marks around it. "You may think it's 'hot,' but does it seem ethical to you?"

"Stop doing scare quotes," Courfeyrac tells him.

"How about 'no'?"

Jehan speaks up now. "Enjolras, I don't get what you're worried about. As long as both parties consent, what's the problem?"

"I mean, would you like to do a Kinky Sex with blood?"

"Yeah. It's hot."

"You find injuries to be sexually appealing?"

"Hey, R," says Bahorel. "Does Enjolras talk like that in bed?"

"Yup. Throughout 'the full sex'."

Enjolras tackles him, yelling something about human rights, and privacy, and not being a total dick. He doesn't seem especially upset, though, and soon their fight turns into a full-on makeout session. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and makes a show of turning away.

"So! Anyone else?"

"This one," says Marius, sounding like a lost puppy. He points at his paper sadly. "Courfeyrac, why would you put food up there?"

"Because that way, when you nut, it'll be literal."

"No. Shut up, Feuilly."

"But I don't understand," Marius continues plaintively. "I mean, it doesn't seem fun at all! Once I tried putting a carton of strawberries up my butt, and it was the worst experience ever. Why would you want to recreate that?"

"You– what?"

"It burns, Courfeyrac! It burns your butt real bad!"

"Okay," says Cosette. "Courfeyrac, let's just move on to the next kink, shall we?"

"Please."

There's a short silence, broken only by the soft moans of Enjolras and Grantaire, who are still going at it on the floor, but finally, thankfully, Jehan stands up and reaches for Feuilly.

"Come."

Feuilly goes, but not without making an incredibly lewd gesture and waggling his eyebrows at Bahorel. "You got it, baby."

"Jehan," says Courfeyrac with a considerable amount of trepidation. "Jehan, what are you doing?"

Jehan gestures dramatically. "I am acting out a kink."

Oh dear. "Which kink?"

"Yeah," says Feuilly. "Which kink? It's not the strawberries, is it?"

"I would not be averse," Jehan tells him.

Joly squawks in horror and raises his hands to the high heavens, praying for strength from Hippocrates himself. Courfeyrac groans.

"No. No strawberries."

"Party poopers." Jehan doesn't seem too bothered, however. They merely wave vaguely in Combeferre's direction, as if asking for his blessing, before turning all their attention on Feuilly. "Lie down," they tell him.

Feuilly looks around obediently for a place to lay his head, and seeing none, hunches into a mound on the top of the coffee table. Jehan looks pleased.

"Very good. You're getting into your role already. Ah– we need some others. Cosette, Bahorel, Bossuet, would you three help me?"

Courfeyrac has lost all idea of what's happening. Frankly, he's not sure he wants to know. He watches in begrudging fascination as Jehan lays everyone out around the room in bizarre positions, even going so far as to pull Enjolras and Grantaire apart and set them on opposite ends of the couch. They pout a bit, but go along with it, especially when Jehan drapes them in the patriotically-colored crepe paper that Enjolras inexplicably has lying around his apartment.

Finally, once everyone is ready, Jehan reaches into their bag and pulls out a candle. "R," they say, brandishing it in his direction. "May I borrow your lighter?"

Grantaire looks a little intimidated, but he nods. "Go ahead. It's in my coat pocket."

"Excellent. Now don't speak anymore. You're in character."

"But what's the character?"

"You will know when the time comes. Now hush."

Grantaire hushes. Everyone else does too, and Jehan, pleased with this result, turns off all the lights in the apartment and lights the candle. They hold it right under their chin like a kid at a campfire.

"Welcome," they intone.

Courfeyrac isn't having a good time at all. How did this happen? He coughs– the only way to make himself known in the darkness.

"Jehan, what's going on?"

Jehan turns on him fiercely. "Quiet! The spirits must commune!"

"The spirits– what?"

"Silence yourself. It is time."

"Time for _what_?"

In answer, Jehan begins chanting. Courfeyrac has no idea what they're saying, but it sounds ominous, especially because it seems to be coming closer and closer to him. He doesn't know what he's going to do, because none of this is what he'd bargained for at all, but fortunately, he doesn't have to do anything. There's a scuffle in the darkness, and a high-pitched squeaking sound, and then the side-table lamp flicks on, flooding the room with at least some measure of light.

Jehan, interrupted, stops chanting and glares around the room. "Who did that?"

By the lamp, a crepe paper-draped Enjolras raises his hand, looking sheepish. "Sorry, I got scared."

"You weren't the only one," mumbles Bahorel.

Jehan points at them both. "You have disrupted the ritual."

Enjolras squeaks again and climbs onto Grantaire. Bahorel tries to climb onto Feuilly, but ends up knocking him off the coffee table and onto Musichetta, who'd been standing beside it in a victory pose. She's not happy about this, and in the resulting scuffle, Jehan's weird kink demonstration is abandoned.

After this, things settle down a bit. Everyone is a little subdued, probably afraid of more communion with the spirits, and the only questions are from Enjolras, who wants to know if all of these "extra-intimate activities" have been cleared by the newest version of the city's fire safety codes, and Marius, who still doesn't quite grasp the difference between a dildo and a vibrator. It's not too bad. Courfeyrac is starting to think that he's going to make it out of this safely… and then the unthinkable happens.

Jehan is talking about blood again, claiming that it's very erotic. No one else seems to agree, but this doesn't deter them at all, as they lyrically proclaim their devotion to "the physical arts." Finally, Enjolras just rolls his eyes and asks if they can agree to disagree.

"Of course," says Jehan magnanimously. "You know, it's all about the individuals involved. It would be difficult for anyone else to decide what is and what is not acceptable."

Enjolras's eyes get big, and he nods like he does in lecture sometimes when he thinks his professors have made an especially good point. "You're right! Like so many other things, kinky sex is a social and cultural construct!"

"Wait, no," says Jehan, but it's too late.

"I can't believe I never thought about this. Isn't it interesting to think of how things have progressed in this society? People now have no problem with things such as engaging in coitus whilst suspended from the ceiling–"

("I do," mumbles Montparnasse)

"–and this, while not particularly controversial, could develop into more questionable practices, such as using blood in intimate acts! Although I find that one to be fairly strange, of course this, like everything else, is highly subjective, and depends first and foremost on the partners in the act. Oh, hey." Enjolras smiles innocently at Courfeyrac and Combeferre. "By the way, whose sex life _are_ we discussing right now?"

Abruptly, everyone stops. No one says a word. Courfeyrac isn't even sure if they're breathing. He knows for sure that he's not.

"Well," he says slowly.

"Nobody's," says Combeferre at the same time.

No one looks convinced. Slowly, Feuilly and Bahorel cock their heads to the side, moving completely in synchrony.

"That's bullshit," they say at the same time.

"Why is it bullshit?"

Courfeyrac is very proud of how steady his voice is. He's good at this. Maybe his superb acting abilities will save the day after all. Not that this is really great either, because it means facing up to the deliberate suppression of his and Combeferre's not-relationship (which is painful enough already without having to put a null label on it, thank-you-very-much), but it will at least smooth things over for now. And then, who knows? Maybe he can get Combeferre to fall in love with him, and they can be actual boyfriends and get married and have little Star Wars cake-toppers and a chocolate fountain at their reception.

"You're full of it," says Feuilly, breaking into this semi-rosy dream. Bahorel nods.

"Yeah. And by _it_ , we mean–"

"I know what you mean."

Bahorel and Feuilly come up on either side of Courfeyrac (they leave Combeferre alone though– it seems, well, _unferre_ ) and rest their elbows on him. "Why do you have to be like this?" Feuilly wants to know. "We're just trying to snoop on your sex life."

"And it didn't occur to you that that might be private?"

"Okay, since when have you been private about anything?" Feuilly looks at Bahorel. "He's hiding something."

"Ooh, Courfeyrac's got a little secret!"

How do they sound exactly like nine-year-old schoolchildren? They're grown men. They have _jobs_. Courfeyrac puts his head in his hands.

"Please leave me alone."

"Nuh-uh. No way." Bahorel sits up, giving Courfeyrac a temporary respite from his very heavy, very spiky elbows, and points at Enjolras. "Hey, angel. What's he hiding?"

"I don't know," says Enjolras, sounding way too intrigued. "But you know, I bet we could find out."

Courfeyrac yelps. " _Et tu Brute_? What kind of best friend are you? Get these assholes to back off!"

"But Courfeyrac," says Enjolras. His eyes are very wide and innocent and blue. "Don't you trust us?"

"No!"

"Really?"

Enjolras comes over and looks up at him. He's making that goddamn face, the one that makes everyone within a half-mile radius agree with whatever he says and give him free things. Courfeyrac is often glad to be able to harness such a useful power, but not now, not when it's turned against him.

"Stop it," he says.

Enjolras just sticks out his lower lip. "You don't want to tell me?"

"No, I don't!"

"Oh."

Now he's doing those Bambi eyes. Courfeyrac tries hard to look away. "It's my personal business," he says.

"Personal business." Feuilly raises his eyebrows at everyone else in the room. "Friends, do you realize what this means?"

Courfeyrac thinks he knows. He doesn't want confirmation, though. "Feuilly," he says warningly.

It does no good. Feuilly punches him in the arm, way too hard, and raises his fist like a wrestler. "Courfeyrac's got a secret fuckbuddy!"

"A brilliant deduction," says Bahorel. "But, Feuilly. Consider this. Why the mystery? Courfeyrac has never kept his fuckbuddies secret before."

"What a good point. Hmm."

"It must be a sensitive liaison," says Cosette, getting into the spirit of the discussion. "Maybe, Courfeyrac is afraid of hurting their feelings."

"But why would it hurt their feelings, though," Enjolras wants to know. "Wouldn't it be flattering? Like, I would think anyone would be proud to hook up with Courfeyrac."

Bless him. Courfeyrac has changed his mind– his best friend is an actual angel. Still, though, this is pretty awkward.

"Cosette is right," he says. "It's, uh, you know. We're trying to keep it under wraps for now."

"Oh, so it's kinda serious, then." Grantaire points at him with an unlit cigarette. "C'mon man, level up with us. We're not gonna talk. Who's the lucky buddy?"

"It's not– we don't know if it'll work out–"

Cosette narrows her eyes. "You're never unsure. So this means one thing."

"No, it doesn't–"

"We _know_ them!"

Immediate uproar. Everyone's amazed that they hadn't thought of this before, and are expressing this amazement in loud, incredulous tones. Courfeyrac sneaks a look at Combeferre, only to see him sitting still, face scrunched up. He looks like he's in legitimate pain. Is the thought of their friends finding out really that terrible?

Suddenly, Courfeyrac is annoyed. It's not like he has fleas or anything. Why should Combeferre be so ashamed of him? He's not going to take this dirty-little-secret thing anymore. If Combeferre decides to stop sleeping with him after that, well, that's just fine. It was getting to hurt too much, anyway.

"Fine," he says, cutting into the noise. His voice isn't as attention-getting as Enjolras's is, but fortunately, Bahorel hears him, and starts bullying everyone into silence.

"He's gonna tell us who he's fuckin'!"

Everyone quiets down and looks at Courfeyrac expectantly, not the least of them being Combeferre, whose face is completely unreadable now.

"Courfeyrac…" he begins warily.

Courfeyrac isn't going to be stopped. "I've had enough," he proclaims. "All this sneaking around, this ridiculous hiding from everyone– why be ashamed? This is it, I'm telling you. Friends, Romantics, countrymen, lend me your ears, for on this day, I tell you the truth: I am sleeping with Combeferre!"

There's complete silence for a second. Then, Enjolras starts up and hollers loud enough to alert the whole city block.

"What the hell? You guys are sleeping together?"

"We are," Courfeyrac tells him. "Very often, too."

Enjolras looks like he's about to faint. He flaps his hand weakly at Grantaire. "Please get me some seltzer water."

Grantaire pulls a bottle out of his bag and hands it over. Meanwhile, Combeferre has gone about twenty shades paler. It's almost alarming.

"Courfeyrac," he says. His voice is strangled. "May I speak to you in private?"

Courfeyrac shrugs and follows him into Enjolras's bedroom, ignoring the wolf-whistles and catcalls of their friends (probably really just Bahorel and Feuilly, but they're so loud that it feels like more). He's trying to keep his cool, but he has no idea what's going to happen, and he's under no illusions that tonight's going to be a bad one.

"Look, whatever you're going to say…" he begins. Combeferre holds up one hand, looking so distressed that Courfeyrac almost wants to tell him to sit down, and maybe drink some of Enjolras's seltzer water, only it's probably better to get this whole thing over with here and now, so he cuts off his sentence right where it began (just as well; he wasn't sure how he was going to finish it, anyway). "Go ahead."

Combeferre takes off his glasses. He looks more fragile without them, somehow, less put-together, maybe because Courfeyrac's only seen them off during sex. "Listen," he says, and then stops there. Courfeyrac cocks his head.

"Yeah, I'm listening."

"Okay. See, the thing is…"

Poor Combeferre seems to be having a hard time getting the words out, which is funny, because Courfeyrac has come to know him as someone with eloquence born on the tip of his tongue. Whatever it is he wants to say now, it must be truly difficult. Courfeyrac puts a hand on his arm in sympathy, and he calms at the touch, but once he does, he moves away gently, as if trying to maintain a professional distance. Courfeyrac pretends not to be hurt.

"You got this."

"All right. Okay. I got this." Combeferre takes a breath. "Listen, I know this sounds bad, but I… sex isn't just sex for me. I have feelings for you, too. I know you don't feel the same, and I tried to contain it, but now things are getting more entangled, so I knew I had to tell you before anything else happened. So before you tell everyone that we're fuckbuddies–"

"Wait, hold on. You have feelings for me?" Courfeyrac isn't sure if he's inhabiting some parallel universe right now. _He's_ the one with an unrequited crush, not the other way around. He holds a hand up in front of his face and wiggles it around. "Is this real life? Or is this some kind of weird fever dream? Because I'm the one who has feelings for you, so–"

"Wait. You what?"

"No, _you_ what?"

Combeferre and Courfeyrac stare at each other, neither one willing to give in and admit that things might be too good _and_ true. It's a good thirty seconds before Courfeyrac gathers his courage, knowing this is one of the hardest things he's ever done in his life, and steps forward.

"May I kiss you, Combeferre?"

It looks like there's a lot of things that Combeferre wants to say. For a second, Courfeyrac is afraid that they're all rejections, but then he grins, so bright and incandescent that it lights up the whole room– probably the whole city, while he's at it. Combeferre's always been an over-achiever.

"You may."

Courfeyrac kisses him.

In a way, he thinks dizzily, it's their first kiss, because now there's feelings involved, _requited_ feelings, feelings that he's not trying to ignore on pain of heartbreak and unbearable emo-ness. But, it's a first kiss that's had a lot of practice leading up to it, and by now, they both know what to do to make the other sigh and moan and grind up close in a way that's probably not appropriate, because they're in their best friend's bedroom and he's a finicky little dork at the best of times, but it doesn't matter, because it's their _first kiss_ , and it's too good to stop.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre pants as Courfeyrac kisses down his throat– and nips, hard. "Ah, _Courfeyrac_!"

"Keep your voice down," Courfeyrac tells him, but it's hardly convincing when his own voice comes out raspy and wrecked and seriously aroused. Combeferre tugs at his hair.

"Screw that."

"But Enjolras…"

Combeferre takes Courfeyrac's thumb and sucks it into his mouth, maintaining perfect eye contact. Courfeyrac forgets everything he'd been about to say, and why he'd been about to say it.

"I'm going to take you to bed," he says instead.

Combeferre exhales, in what's probably meant to be a poised sort of way, but it's shaky, and his eyes are blown with lust. "Finally."

Courfeyrac doesn't bother with a snarky reply. Instead, he bodily grabs hold of Combeferre and drags him onto Enjolras's bed, never letting their lips part for a second longer than he has to. Yeah, Enjolras might be mad at him in a few hours, but whatever. He'll decontaminate later. In the meantime, he has a new IRB-approved list to try out.

—

"It's been hours," Enjolras whines, face buried firmly in Grantaire's lap. "For fuck's sake, they do it all the time, right? Why do they have to be so passionate right now? _In my room_?"

Grantaire scratches lightly at his hair. "Shh, babe. It's okay. Just think about happy things."

"I can't. All I can think about is that goddamn list. What are they doing in my room, Grantaire? Is my stuff safe? Do you think they moved my books? What if they nut all over my books?"

"I don't think Combeferre will let them nut on your books."

"But what if he's tied up? What if he's suspended from the ceiling? What if… Oh– I don't want to think about this."

"Look at it this way," says Marius cheerfully. "At least we took water-sports off the list."

Enjolras just groans, loudly. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure they'll figure something out."

"Should I offer them candles?" Jehan asks. They hold one up to illustrate, along with a frighteningly-sharp butterfly knife. "I could give them some other stuff, too. Blood-play is fun play."

"No, it's not! It's unsanitary!"

"Why?"

Enjolras sniffles like he's about to burst into tears. Grantaire rubs his back soothingly, though he's also fighting back a smirk. This situation might be terribly uncomfortable, but undeniably, it's hilarious, too.

"Joly, do you have that tea?" he asks.

Joly comes bustling over, mug in hand. "Yeah, I do. I was cooling it with my breath."

Enjolras sits up and looks at him skeptically. "Why?"

"So it won't burn your sensitive little mouth."

"I mean– isn't that kind of inefficient?"

"For you, Enjolras, I would do anything."

Enjolras doesn't look impressed with this, but he takes the tea and knocks it back. Only when he's finished a good part of the mug does he lower it to take a breath.

"Joly, this tastes like alcohol!"

"Oh yes," says Joly. "That's probably because I put some alcohol in it."

"Huh." Enjolras looks into the mug as if looking for answers. Then, he shrugs. "Well, bottoms up, I guess."

Grantaire lets out a shocked gasp. "Oh, Enjolras, how these troubled times have changed you!"

Enjolras doesn't bother to answer except to flip him off. He's too busy drinking alcoholic tea. Joly, seeing this happy result, fetches his kettle from the kitchen, and pours everyone a cup. By the time it comes time to pour his own, the mixture mostly comprises vodka, with a few tea leaves floating on the top. Such is life at the bottom of the kettle.

"Well, friends," he says. "Here's to loud, kinky sex. And to the IRB."

Everyone nods solemnly and drinks. No one's sure if it's a toast or a statement of melancholy, or maybe both, but whatever it is, there's enough tea to fit it all.

—

By the time Courfeyrac and Combeferre come out of the bedroom, all their friends are passed out on the floor, three-sheets-to-the-wind, wasted as a team of tipsy cats. This would be funny enough, especially since each of them seems to be lying in some sort of yoga pose, but when Courfeyrac gets to the counter, he can't help but laugh again, because there, propped up neatly against the now-empty teakettle, is a note bearing one simple word:

 _Congratulations_.


End file.
